The Psychiatrist
by Mellow Mihael
Summary: A somewhat unwilling Brian is being persuaded into therapy by a somewhat ooc Curt. It's a bit fluffy not to mention angsty , but hey, it's the 70's, it's Velvet Goldmine darn it! Might be mildly suggestive, rated T just to be sure. CxB.
1. The Psychiatrist

Brian sighed as he leaned back in the white designer sofa. He was already having regrets about this whole thing. As a matter of fact, he'd just made up his mind to leave, but a lady in white calling out his name stopped him.

-Mrs. Newman is waiting for you, sir.

Like a kid caught playing with matches, Brian slowly turned around and faced her. After a seconds hesitation, he entered the door the woman held open for him. She guided him through the room and to yet another door, a tall ornamented one in wood. Breathing deeply in, he pushed the cold metal handle down and took in the room. Red plush floor. Heavy bookshelves. Red, velvet sofas. Matching Chairs. Everything in wood, mahogany he guessed.

-Well mr…

The psychiatrist glanced quickly at a notepad in front of her

- ..Slade, is it? Please have a seat.

With a gesture she placed Brian in the couch closest to her. He suddenly jerked in his seat, his brain had finally deciphered the signals from his retinal areas: This lady was _old_! Her wrinkled face made his very core writhe in pure disgust. The lines from her eyes and around her discreetly painted lips were already well developed, although she couldn't possibly be more than 35 years old. He realized he was staring, and looked down at his currently fiddling hands and made a point of straightening every fiber of his pants.

- Not much of a talker, huh? I hope this setting isn't troubling you too much, though. Your friend, Curt, said you might dislike it.

-Boyfriend.

He corrected.

-Pardon?

Brian stopped his fidgeting for a moment and looked up.

-He's my boyfriend, not friend.

The psychiatrist nodded and wrote something at her pad. Her patient couldn't be more uncomfortable by now.

-Well, your boyfriend seems to care for you. A lot actually.

She added

-And what's more, he seems to worry about you. What is he worrying about Brian?

-Well,

Brian cleared his throat

- Seeing it as you are a psychiatrist and I'm here as your.. um.. patient, I'd dare to say it's about my mental health.

A slight chuckle and a quick scribbling on her pad again.

-What I meant to ask you was what you think your problem is about?

-Why don't you ask Curt, he was the one who forced me to come here in the first place. Sounds like you two have had a bloody nice little chat about me.

Still a bit sulky for having to talk to this disgusting old hag, he didn't notice that his voice skipped an octave.

She sighed

-I don't wish you any harm, Brian. I really want to help you with what you're struggling with, but I'll need you to cooperate. Is it really so that you don't realize why you're here today?

The singer closed his eyes and refilled his lungs.

-Curt worries about my drinking, my alternate stage persona, about Mandy and my feelings towards her and the rest of the whole darn world… He's also worried about my career, as ironic as that might be, and…um..

He realized he was in the middle of an outburst and went silent-

-The substance abuse?

She added

The blonde elevated his blue eyes to her level and nodded, shocked. What else did she know about him? What had that dimwitted American ass told her about him? His bloody sexlife?

-It's okay, I had Curt here regularly for about three months you know. I've heard some stories.

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-I'm not going back there Curt. No matter what you say, I'm not going back to that nosy hag.

Brian stated, as the door slammed shut behind him.

-Whoah, relax love. What did she say to upset you so?

Curt managed to steal a kiss before returning to his juice carton. His lover had hectic red spots on his cheeks, not necessarily a good sign. Brian dropped his coat and slapped the juice out of the Americans hands. It's yellow contents spilled all over the white tiles.

-I've just endured the worst hour and the half of my life, and you proceed drinking juice?! And on top of that, you sent me in there, you told her… told here every blasted detail of my life?! How could you do this to me, don't you love me anymore?

Curt stared blindly at his enraged boyfriend. Had he gone completely insane? Had he shot up some before returning home? But, no, his pupils was small periods in his icy iris' due to the fluorescent lighting of the hallway.

-Of course I love you, how can you even question that? What's the matter Brian, I thought you needed it. I saw myself in you, you know, and god knows I needed a talk with her.

Brian let himself sink to the floor.

-I'm sorry Curt, I didn't mean to accuse you.. I'm just not used to having all this… _caring_ around me. And I felt like some awful miscreature when she stared at me.. It was like an interrogation where she knew me inside out! I just… just…

He felt his boyfriend's arm wrap around his shoulders.

-It's okay, mate. I guess I should have talked to you more thoroughly before sending you off like that. Next time, I'll go with you, allright?

-Who says there'll be a next time?

- Okay, you don't have to decide that now.

He carefully lifted the younger boys chin upwards, 'till their lips met.

-How 'bout we go to bed now? We can clean up this mess later..

-Sound splendid.

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Well, what do you think, anything to continue? And I do apologize for my sucky English, but it's soo far from my native tongue. But I try to better myself! Please note that this one's not beta'd yet!

Please rate and review, that's what's keeping me going.


	2. Nothing a sip vodka can’t fix

Thank you so much for reviewing, you guys are awesome!

Nightmares of a Daydream and Mychelle in a Wonderland/Mychelle_Lioncourt were the first two rewievers, so this chappie is dedicated to you! Be proud, 'couse I wrote this for you!

Meaghan Mackenzie sighed, just a little coquette, and leaned back in the expensive swivel chair. If only dr. Newman could finish those letters! Posting those would be her last duty of the day, and spend the rest of the day getting ready for her date. Then, she remembered the new nail polish she'd bought on her way from starbuck's to the office earlier. Pistachio green. As the girl applied the color with a steady hand, the nuance revived a certain memory. It was exactly the same color as the coat that the nervous chap last week had worn. Actually, his whole person had seemed familiar.. Oh, well, probably just some c, or probably d-celebrity of some kind.. She'd described him to her friends as attractive, but she'd had her share of psychos. Wonders what he's doing here… Paranoia, perhaps?

The nail polish was drying, and she produced a celeb. magazine from her capacious purse, careful not to mess up her nails. The girl flipped aimlessly through the pages, her glance dancing up and down the pages until… His face appeared before her. The poor girl was so startled by her sudden recognition, she almost fell off her chair and had to take an involuntary sharp breath to regain her composure. The headline glittered toward her: Brian Slade.

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Curt awoke to a splitting headache. He somehow found his way to the bathroom and the bottle of aspirin. 'That ought to shut that drumming monkey up for a while' the American male thought satisfied, and started rummaging through the fridge for something edible. Vodka and blue cheese. He took a swig from the bottle and proceeded to the cupboards.

'WTF? Weetabix? Why do we even have this shit?'

Eventually he ended up with the remainders of his vodka, a lollipop and a box of honey-puffs. Not the best breakfast in the word, but certainly not the worst. Then, something hit the back of his head and the world went black. Not because he fainted, but because he now had a pair of boxers covering his eyes.

-Blink.

Brian stated, and walked down the staircase.

-Hey!

His boyfriend complained, but with his typical sheepish grin.

Brian inspected his now half-finished meal with disgust written on his face.

-Honey-puffs with _vodka_? Don't you think you had enough liquor yesterday?

The taller guy shrugged, still smiling

-How the hell should I know, I don't recall any of it.. Well 'cept your performance, love. Sparklin' as usual.

-You're such a split tongued bastard, y' know that!

And with a smile Curt dragged his lover to him and kissed him passionately.

-Someone's had their share of booze this morning.

Brian murmured, still tasting the vodka in his mouth. And there was something brushing against his stomach..

-Curt! My butt is still sore from yesterday, there's no way in bloody hell- mpff

Said man silenced him with yet another kiss, this time with a mouthful of vodka.

'Nothing a sip vodka can't fix..'

He thought deviously to himself, as he led the younger boy towards the couch.

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was getting slightly worried. Mr. Slade hadn't showed up for his appointment two hours ago, and his cell was turned off. She'd even tried to reach him through Mr. Wilde, but no one answered it, and after the third voicemail she gave up. On second thought, she didn't want to know what a couple like Curt and Brian busied themselves with.


	3. The art of Communication

Hah, things got outta hand and this slightly angsty chapter practically wrote itself. During exam preparation class.

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Brian was pissed. For several reasons. Firstly, Curt was wasted, shit-ass drunk. And home alone. Secondly, he'd been reckless in his hurry and was spotted by psychedelic, squeeling fangirls(and actually some boys) as he made his way out of the apartment. Now, his hand was sore from autographing and worse: His coat was missing a button. Thirdly, he was currently stuck in traffic jam.

Earlier that morning, he'd gotten one hell of a wake-up call from his mad manager Jerry. Brian had forgotten that the world kept on spinning although he was being seduced. Not an especially pleasant surprise, as he was supposed to be present at a meeting thirty minutes ago. A quick shower, change of clothes and two-minute-makeup was everything he'd managed before roaming the apartment. He was only 50 minutes late, he noted sarcastically with a glance at the dashboard clock. Brian hated to drive by himself, but today, the chauffeur wouldn't show up until 5pm, as it was his half day off. Killer timing. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. In his rush, he'd somehow managed to put on his boxers back-forward. Cursing under his breath, he pulled over.

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The American blinked astonished at his cell phone. Four missed calls. Every single one complete with voicemails. From the same number: Dr. Newman's office.

-No shit!

He uttered, eyes growing wide in realization.

-BRIAN! BRIAN?

Ignoring his breakfast-hangover, he wandered from room to room searching. Eventually, he ended up in their bedroom. Confused and tired, he sunk down on their shared king size, Brians demand. His fingers lit reluctantly a cigarette as he rummaged through his memory. He liked to thing that the nicotine sped up his thinking. Now, where the fuck was Brian? …let's see.. last night: concert. Had he been playing? Hm, probably, 'cause he remembered that smile Brian got whenever he was center of attention. No way he'd seen that from the crowd or the wings. Then what? …oh yes, gin, gin and ..vodka? Judging by his headache, yes. He also seemed to vaguely recall something about honey puffs.. although he wasn't too sure of the last one. That was pretty weird. He inhaled his smoke deeply as he leaned back on the soft sheets. Their distinct smell stirred a little domino of memories inside the rockers head, and he grinned.

-Ah, one of those nights!

A sudden wave of guilt washed over him, wiping every trace of satisfaction off the males pretty face. He'd lifted the fog of one certain fragment of a memory. Brian had been resisting him, he saw his green eyes before him, surprisingly clear now. He could even recall his words:

-Curt, there's no way in bloody hell.. Curt!

-NO! NONONO!

He didn't even notice that he'd shouted it out. There was no way he could've… No, he couldn't have done that, could he? Not to Brian!? …not again..

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So, sorry for the cliffhanger guys, I really am!

..and for this chapter being so ridiculously short. I've got one excuse though! Exam! On Monday. I'll blame it on that;p

Thanks to my loving reviewers, Mychelle in a Wonderland and Nightmares of a Daydream, you're the ones keeping me writing!


	4. What have you done?

Is it just me, or are these chapter getting shorter?

This story is getting out of hand, it's basically living it's own life and becomes more and more angsty everytime I look away!

Thanks to the regular reviewers, LOVE YOU SO MUCH!

Let the drama begin! Dance my puppets, dance!

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- John, I'm only dancing

she turns me oon!

But don't get me wroong!

Brian happily sang along with Bowie on the radio. He was finally on his way home, and tapped the pace on the wheel as he slowly increased the speed, ignoring the limit sign on his right. The meeting had been a relatively short one, considering how Jerry used to expand the time drastically.

He played with the thought of calling Curt, but realized he'd forgotten his cell.

'Oh well. What could possibly have worried Curt? Hung-over paranoia? He chuckled slightly at the thought. 'He'd only been gone for, what, 3-4 hours? Curt was fine,' he assured himself.

'probably still passed out anyway,'

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Meanwhile, Curt'd ran out of liquor, and was now reduced to a mess of booze and tearstains on the couch.

In a moment on despair and self-hatred earlier, he'd bare-fistedly smashed the figure sized mirror in the hallway. It remains now laid shattered in a gazillion shards all over the plainly decorated tiles. His knuckles was raw and bleeding, leaving stains an his bare chest, the now emptied bottle, the cream colored couch and more or less everywhere else he'd been. Later on he'd proceeded to Brian's records. In a brief moment he felt like destroying the whole lot of them, but managed to regain his composure. This mess was his fault, and only his. Brian was the innocent here, the victim. At this thought, he harshly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

He didn't notice what did, or why he was doing it until the Ballad of Maxwell Demon record was spinning. His beloved one's voice hurt him badly, like a knife that knew his anatomy all too well, that knew how to make him hurt. At that moment there was no tomorrow. Nobody loved him, not when Brian had… He had no home now, no family, no future. And he felt the dogs he thought he'd killed long ago starting to growl insatiable in the depth of his stomach. Of course. He knew what he had to do. There was no reason to lock the door, and the record kept playing as Curt wandered further and further from their apartment, heading towards the alley were he lived long ago.

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The apartment door was unlocked. 'That was odd,' he thought. He was sure he'd locked it earlier.

-Darlin', I'm hoomee!

He shouted, only a hint of concern audible in his voice. No answer. Now he was really getting nervous, as he entered the hallway.

-Oh god. Brian gaped. There was glass and blood everywhere.

'Had there been burglars here? And more importantly: where the bloody hell was Curt?'

He carefully tiptoed over the glass covered area. A blaze of thought stirred in his mind as he proceeded to the living room… and promptly changed his mind. Not burglars. Junkie burglars. As there was no food in the apartment, Curt ate most of it that morning, he assumed that the airheads had proceeded to the booze. There were empty liquor bottles all over the place, some of them with bloody handprints. He made his way through the junk to the couch and sunk down on the cream colored piece of furniture, thinking of what to do next.

Curt was missing. Not in their apartment. Their apartment was a bloody mess, literally. And…a sound disturbed his meditations. Was that a record? Following the sound, he ended up in the bedroom. His song, Hot One was playing…And there was blood on the pickup.

He added the factors, slowly. No Curt + Smashed Apartment + Melacholy song playing, put on by the smasher + unlocked door = Curt left.

Brian felt his eyes starting to water over. Curt'd left him. Why? Why, why, why?

Realization struck him like lightning: Because he'd left Curt alone. He'd been so egoistic as to prioritizing his career, he'd completely overrun Curt in the progress. Now, Curt'd had enough. After dealing with his depressive thoughts, with the liquor, he'd ran out the door, not bothering to lock it.

-Oh Curt.. Brian sobbed, his hand covering his face. –What have you done?


	5. Try some, buy some

London is filled with narrow alleyways and tiny, filthy backyards in the most unthinkable neighborhoods. They're all parts of that musty, intricate labyrinth of old and new buildings that makes up the UKs capital. Whilst most of the city thoroughly modernistic built up of tall buildings in glass and metal, it there still traces of old-London's former self. The so-called backside of the oh-so-famous medal. Dark, smelly alleys filled with dark, smelly people. Actions has been taken, of course, to clean this shame-spot of Londons perfectly clean reputation(at least in the citizens' eyes), but somehow the dirt seems to have grown permanent roots. It was in one of these lugubrious passages that former rockstar Curt Wild had passed out sometimes ago.

His hair a dirt-blonde, tangled mess flowing down upon his bony shoulders. He looked like more of a skeleton than a living human being,as he laid in fetalposition underneath a urine smelling, overfilled dupster. The males skinny frame were shivering in the frosted, polluted March-air. His clothes didn't help him keep up his bodywarmth at all. The thin, sweaty cotton shirt he was wearing might once have been white, or maybe grey, and his leather jacked had wide gaps. His jeans were worn and currently undone Originally, they'd been bleached a pale, azure nuance Brian'd loved. Now, the color was barely visible because of the many spots and stains covering its surface. Some of them were innocent stains from food, motor oil and such, but a suspicious amount of the not-so-innocent stains were located around his groin. A slight strip of his pallid, bruised skin was visible, due to his undone pants.

Stirring slightly, he let out a slight groan. As he regained the feelings in his aching limbs, he realized he was clinking sober. Fluttering his dark lashes somewhat, he took in glances of his surroundings.

"Shit, no, not again.." His voice were a raspy whisper, barely audible.

And with a massive groan, he felt his way to his pocket, and fumbled around. The previously, half-empty baggie were gone.

"Oh, fuck"

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"Brian? Brian! Don't you hang up on me again! We've been through this before, the contract is still binding, no matter what kind of bloody messed up moodswingi.."

"BEEP"

Jerry's rant was abruptly interrupted by the electronic sound of his office's phone.

He slammed the flat on his hand in his mahogany desk, ignoring the pain the solid material caused him.

"Bloody 'ell! He actually hung up on me! Could you believe that?"

He continued shouting at no one in particular, as busy people rushed through his office, most of them in platform boots and carrying meter-high stables of documents.

Shannon sat in an especially uncomfortable designer chair, gazing upon the mess that was her job. Ever since Brian'd, recording to rumors, ended his relationship with his _male_ guitarist and gotten so broken up about it that he'd refused to talk to anyone. Even his wife, Mandy, hadn't seen him for nearly a month now. Regretting it all, she sighed deeply. 'Why'd she even answered that add?'

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"Curt!"

She rustled the lifeless man she'd just recognized as Curt Wild, a former patient of hers. Finally, his eyes opened, though Curt didn't seem to be able to focus on anything. His lips parted, as if he wanted to say her something but ended up closing it as he found out he was unable of producing a single sound even close to a word. His eyes rolled back in its sockets, and his head fell back against the green dumpster with a loud thud as he passed out again.

Emily Margareth Brown sighed of relief. At least her patient (now, he could surely be considered as a patient) was alive. On Curts now exposed neck was a vein visible, pulsating evenly.

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Brians shining red cell phone danced over the table. He snatched it on the fourth ring.

"Yes, Jerry, I'm sure. My decision is final! Now stop calling m…What?"

He bolted upright in the couch he'd been spending the last few days in.

"You did really!? Where?" He interrupted himself "No, it doesn't matter, I'll be there right away!"

Thrilled, he rushed through his apartment, not realizing he was only dressed in a pair of Curts underpants before he reached the hall with the broken mirror. He still hadn't picked up the bloody shards covering the most of the floorspace. Digging into a pile of clothes lying in rather large heap on the floor, he produced a somewhat clean pair of glittering, skinny jeans in minutes. Luckily there were a set of car keys in one of the pockets. He snatched a red, pleather jacket on his way out as he kipped on a pair of Curts worn vans.

'Finally, Finally! Curt!'

The doubt, however, started flowing through him as the bitter truth seeped into his conciousness. What if Curt didn't want to see him? After all, Curt was the one who'd ran out on him. It became harder and harder not to turn the car around, to head home.

'Home.. Home to what? The remainders of his stash of coke and vodka?'

'No,' he thought. 'This is a chance I'll have to take.'

And somewhere in the depths of his mind, a little voice reminded him that Curt might just as well need _him_. ¨There had been something in the shrinks voice that'd alarmed his, hmm, subconscious mind? Something in her tone, certainly not joy or relief ..

'Curt couldn't be… No, not Curt..'

He swallowed harshly.

'No,' he decided 'she'd told him that..'


End file.
